The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (21 page)

She would have felt a bit ashamed at so losing her temper in front of a guest, but no one was paying her the least heed.

"Off with you, all of you, until the room is as I like it," she said, shooing them out of her sight. Edmund left angrily, his eyes stormy. Aelis left smiling. Ulrich left cheerfully, his temper unaffected. If not for Edmund being in the midst of them, she was not uncertain that Ulrich and Aelis would have left together.

Isabel was disgusted with them all.

Aelis should content herself with the husband arranged for her. It was what Isabel should have done herself, but in her blindness, she had demanded Richard, and Richard loved another. The very woman who had taught her what it meant to be a woman held Richard's heart.

Tearing the dirty cover from the bed, Isabel could only rage in her heart that God had answered her prayer.

* * *

"God has answered your heartfelt prayer. Where is your joy?" Father Langfrid asked.

She had finished preparing the chamber, setting the servants to clean and scrub, scolding them for not doing their duty in keeping it clean, finding fresh linen only to realize that the laundry was backing up. She had been on her way to the laundress to find out exactly how remiss in her duties she had been, when Langfrid had found her. She had no answer to his question. Her joy? It was gone, vanished on the marriage bed as surely as her virginity. Yet she would not tell him what had transpired there, proclaiming Richard's sin to the sky. Richard's confessor knew all and was the only person who needed to know. Richard certainly had not needed to tell her, and she could not decide if it was an act of cruelty or vulnerability on his part in telling her the depth of his sin. There was no need for Father Langfrid to know unless he heard it from Richard himself.

But Father Langfrid was determined to mend the breach between them, and to do that, he must know the cause.

"Was it that the conjugal night did not meet your expectations?" he asked.

"Yea," she answered, tying to mask her sarcasm, "it did not."

Langfrid seemed to relax, at ease to have a cause for the breach in her joy. “This is the normal way, I am told. You will accustom yourself to it in time and will even learn to find pleasure in it."

Impossible. She was never going to allow Richard such intimacy with her again. All she could hear was her own voice begging him for forgiveness, pleading with him, the tears choking her. Let him bed Lady Bertrada again instead.

Nay, she did not mean that; it was her anger and her hurt, for she would not wish Richard to sin to such a degree again, no matter how deeply he had hurt her. But it was a truth that he did not want her. He had never wanted her. And she would never allow herself to want him again.

She said none of this to Father Langfrid, naturally, yet he seemed to read something of her rebellion on her face.

"You will, Isabel, and you must. 'Tis the way of marriage. He is your lord. You must submit with a good will."

"I did submit," she said, charging ahead, hoping to outpace him.

"With a good will," he said, "for your own sake."

For her own sake she would avoid the marriage bed and Richard with it.

"Excuse me. Father, but I must speak with Elfrida about the laundry."

Her meeting with Elfrida went well as she was in a fine mood for delivering a good scolding, which Elfrida heartily deserved for so neglecting her duties. Langfrid waited for her to return. He was determined to continue this conversation—almost as determined as Isabel was not to have it. Leading the way into the chapel, Isabel resigned herself to listening to Langfrid discuss her conjugal relations.

It was most unpleasant.

"You do understand that only men find pleasure in their coupling the first time they attempt it."

With the way God was treating her lately, she found she was not surprised.

"Women blessed with a husband, particularly a husband such as yours, come to yearn for their husband's touch; it is merely a matter of learning..."

A husband such as hers? A husband who did not want her and yearned for another? Nay, Richard would never touch her again.

"Do you not yearn for a child?" he asked into her silent and sullen face. "Without pleasure, there is no child."

"No child?" she asked, speaking out for the first time in his diatribe.

"Nay," he said, clearly exasperated. "For unless you achieve your pleasure, no child can come."

A child. Yea, she wanted a child. Richard she could never have. But Richard could give her a child. One child was all he would have to provide. He could give her nothing else, but he could give her that.

"How do I get my pleasure from it?" she asked intently.

Langfrid blushed. "I cannot answer as to that."

"I refuse to ask Richard!" she snapped, knowing that was exactly what Langfrid would suggest.

"Richard will know," he urged. "You must trust yourself in his care. He is your husband. He will know what must be done, how the thing is to be achieved."

It was advice she could hardly follow, but she kept the retort to herself, swallowing the words as she strode from the chapel. But she did not need to speak; she was Isabel, and all was written upon her face for all the world to see.

Chapter 20

"You did not pledge to me," Richard said.

"I will. I only thought to serve you," Louis answered.

They were alone in the hall, the light strong and bright against the stone, the cooing of nesting birds in the high wind holes soft and peaceful to the ear. It was well, since there was little that Louis said which sat soft upon Richard's ear.

"By bringing armed knights not sworn to me into my fief?"

"They are not treacherous. Not like Adam and Nicholas."

"So, you know they are gone from here and you seek to distance yourself from their plotting?"

"My only plot was to give you aid in becoming a strong lord for Dornei."

"And for Isabel?" Richard pounced, sensing the weakness in the man before him.

Louis dropped his eyes for but a moment and then lifted them with resolve. "Isabel is your lady. There is no other claim."

"Nor shall there be," Richard declared. "God has given Isabel to me. No man shall take her from me; only God has the right."

"You speak not as a monk," Louis said, a smile trying to light behind his eyes.

"I am not a monk," Richard stated. "God has seen to that."
And Isabel.

Isabel had robbed him of his will to serve God and God alone. He had taken pleasure in her last night: sin magnified. And given her none in return: sin multiplied. She hid from him now, because of his confession, when she had always and in all times hunted him. The day felt... empty... without her.

"And in your efforts not to be a monk, I but sought to aid you," Louis said, "It was only for this that I asked William and Rowland to come to Dornei."

It was less than flattering that Louis thought his skill at arms so lacking. Yet the truth was, he had been practicing and could use a fiercer foe than Gilbert, who was the best Dornei had to offer. Perhaps some friendly swordplay would not be amiss. Who better to test his skill against than William le Brouillard and his shadow companion, Rowland? For their battle prowess they were known well, yet also for their valor. For that alone he would allow himself to trust them. But Louis? He did not trust Louis. Louis yearned for Isabel. What man did not?

* * *

"She has no yearning for the marriage bed," Rowland said.

William grunted and sank lower into his bath. It sounded painfully familiar.

"A marriage of two nights. Give him time," William said.

The chamber in which they were guests was clean and well presented. The sheets were white from the sun and smelled of lavender; the cover was wool dyed blue and stitched with red thread. A bouquet of spring flowers lay upon the ledge by the wind hole, the soft wind carrying the scent of flowers into the room. William was well pleased. Even his bathwater had arrived hot and ample.

Ulrich scrubbed William's back with his favorite scented soap. Rowland stood leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, relating what he had learned of conditions at Dornei. Louis, friend to Ulrich, had requested most urgently that they come to Dornei's aid. Richard, Lord of Dornei, was not as Louis had painted him, for no soft monk had held them trapped within the barbican. Yet Richard was a man unused to battle, and such a man would not meet Dornei's needs easily. How often was a monk called upon to bear arms?

"Give him time." William repeated. Time cured most ills, he had discovered.

"I would give him eternity, but the lady…" Rowland shrugged.

"There is more to marriage than the marriage bed," William said.

Ulrich snorted in dissent and disbelief, while Rowland laughed soundlessly at the squire's youthful display.

"But we can do nothing as to that," William continued, giving Ulrich a dark look which Ulrich smiled away. "He is a man trained to knighthood, a man who chose the cowl and was forced to give that up but recently. Not an easy step, from the cloister to the battlefield."

"So," Rowland said, reading William's intent, "we help him learn again to hold his ground in battle. And leave it to him to learn to hold his lady wife."

His face both serious and regretful, William answered, "I can only do so much, Rowland."

Ulrich's laughter rebounded off the walls, frightening the lark that had been searching for a place among the scattered flowers to build her nest.

* * *

Hard upon the midday meal, the men adjourned to the bailey to commence their battle play. The day stayed fair, the sun bright, drying the mud of recent rain and urging the flowers to come forth and spread their light perfume upon the air. At the moment, within the bailey the only smell was of sweat and manure.

"I had heard," Richard said to Rowland, circling with his blade sharp and ready, "that you two fought ever at each other's backs, single combat being..."

"Being?" Rowland prompted.

"A skill you little used," Richard taunted, baiting the knight who stood to fight him. He was glad for the chance to test his long-neglected skills and enjoyed prodding for the temper of the man before him. But Rowland appeared a man of no temper. He spoke little, smiled only with William, and fought... he fought with the feral joy of a lion.

Richard found pleasure in the company of such a man as Rowland the Dark.

The ring of swords meeting, deflecting, seeking more than air, filled the bailey. The dull thud of wood absorbing metallic blows accompanied the scudding of sudden clouds across the sky. The sun fought for dominance of the spring sky and was slowly, silently defeated by wave upon wave of clouds until all was gray and still. Still, except for the ringing of swords and the beat of weapons against shields. It began to rain, a light rain which all within the bailey ignored. It fell lightly, just more than mist, and almost as soft upon the skin. The circle of watchers within the bailey increased with each strike, each circle, each pass of blade against moving quarry. But Isabel was not among them. Isabel did not watch.

With a blow that caught him unprepared, Rowland cracked Richard's shield in half, the smell of fractured wood rising into the wet air. Rowland stood poised to strike.

"Such loss of concentration leads only to the grave," Rowland said softly, his sword the dull gray of pewter in the dim light. "If you want her to watch you train, ask her."

He was so obvious, then? Even to a stranger? Yet Rowland had been so blunt in his observation and so unemotional in his advice that Richard could not take offense.

"Ask her?" he said.

Did he truly want Isabel to watch him at his swordplay? The answer surprised him; yea, he did.

"Ask her," Rowland repeated. "She likely does not know it would please you."

That was likely true, since her attention in the past had always displeased him, but it disturbed him far more to have her missing. But whether she would do anything now to please him was something he did not want to consider too closely. He did not understand a world in which Isabel was angry with him and kept her distance. He did not know what to expect or what to do.

Rowland stood back while Richard rose from his knees. Once Richard was standing and with a new shield from Edmund, Rowland retreated to the sidelines. William le Brouillard took Rowland's place. If Rowland was the Dark, his thoughts and plans hidden, William was the Fog, for although he was seen, he was impossible to hold and, like the fog, was silent in his battle skills. They would be well matched in battle.

Richard was determined to be a good match for either of them.

"You have a mighty arm... for a praying man," William jested.

Richard smiled, accepting the compliment. "The devil is a mighty adversary; my arm has grown strong in my battles against him."

With smiles of men born with the love of fighting in their blood, the ring of steel once again dominated all sound within the bailey.

Chapter 21